


The Swift Uplifting Rush

by Cliophilyra, taylormicky



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-05
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2017-12-31 13:15:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1032110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cliophilyra/pseuds/Cliophilyra, https://archiveofourown.org/users/taylormicky/pseuds/taylormicky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The others are putting themselves back together, why is John still just existing?</p><p>This is the first thing I have written for years and years and the first fanfic I have ever written. I have been inspired by some of the amazing stories I have read on here and hopefully one day I will write something as good! Please tell me what you think - be gentle with me :-)</p><p>Updated with a few alterations as suggested by my lovely Beta taylormicky. Any remaining mistakes are mine not hers :)</p><p>Updated again three years later to add another chapter I wrote and didn't post. Better late than never I guess!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

John woke up on the couch with the grey light of the TV static lighting the room. There was no sound but he felt that something had woken him. Through the window the sun was beginning to come up, the strange unfocused light of dawn creeping in. 

He lay still and listened intently, was that the sound of the door closing downstairs?

He got up and looked out of the window, a few figures walked past in the cold half light. One was tall, thin, wearing a hoodie pulled up so John couldn't make out his face.

Could it be him? He wanted to open the window and call out but he stopped himself, his hand already on the window sash.

It wasn't him, he chided himself, people already thought he was losing it, yelling at random people in the street wasn't going to help with that.

But what if it was him?

He sighed, leaning his head on the cold window pane, his shoulders shaking minutely and the familiar tightening in his chest.

The figure had already turned the corner. John turned and went back to the couch.

He stared blankly at the static on the TV, trying not to think, until he seemed to see patterns in it. When he closed his eyes it was all snow. Snow and falling.

 

 

Suddenly it was morning, the bright winter sun seeped in and he blinked as he took in the TV, now on some morning news show, and the pain in his back from sleeping sitting up. He groaned as he stretched his shoulders, hearing the crunch as his spine realigned itself.

He looked down at his bare feet, scrunching his toes, feeling the threadbare carpet with the stains of spilt tea and now-unidentifiable chemicals.

Today he would start to get it together, he thought, while another thought said Bullshit.

He closed his eyes briefly. He had had the same thought every morning for the last 12 months. Today I will move on; but every night ended with falling and terror and the unshakable knowledge that it was all pointless.

Any progress he made felt like betrayal in the end. If he got better then that would mean that it was over and he would have to accept that. He couldn't accept that.

At first they had all felt like this, confused, desolated, but gradually resignation took over and the pieces were picked up and normality restored. So why was John still here? Thinking about him all the time and feeling nothing, or too much. 18 months on he felt like it was only yesterday that he had stood below Barts and screamed his name for all the good it had done.

Sometimes he had his doubts, Molly made him doubt. Her grief had been real but sometimes he felt that she mourned for him, as if he was the one who had died or as if he was dying now. The way she looked at him when she thought he couldn't see her.

He didn't see her much at all these days.

There was a knock at the door and he started.

"Are you decent dear?" Mrs Hudson opened the door, her smile faltering only slightly as she took in the whiskey bottle on the coffee table and his disheveled appearance. "I'm going to the shops, do you want anything love?" she asked brightly.

She came in most mornings like this, bright, smiling and desperately worried underneath. Making sure he was still there, up and alive and going to work.

John smiled softly and shook his head, "No ta," he said, "I'm fine." He gestured toward the bathroom, "Just going for a shower then I'll be off, can I get you anything in town?"

"No thanks love, have a good day." He listened to her footsteps and the creak of the stairs as she went back downstairs.

Shedding yesterdays clothes, he went to the bathroom to shower and attempt to make himself presentable.

Afterwards he went up to the bedroom where he hardly seemed to sleep anymore. His clothes were neatly folded on his bed, Mrs Hudson had collected the pile of discarded things and washed and ironed them. Still not your housekeeper but it was her way of helping him, one less thing to think about.

After dressing he collected his keys, wallet and phone and walked to the door, pulling on his jacket. He noticed the whiskey glass on the table next to the bottle, he didn't remember putting it there, sure it had been in his hand when he fell asleep.

He shook his head angrily, "Stop it!" he said to himself firmly and left the flat, slamming the door behind him.

*** 

 

The surgery was busy and he let himself be absorbed into the work and making small talk with his colleagues who all noticed and didn't mention that he was not the man they had known a year and a half ago, despite his best efforts. He couldn't bear the pity.

At lunchtime he bought a sandwich and went to St James Park, watching the birds and the suited government types walking in twos, speaking softly about things of National Importance.

One of them broke away from his companion and walked towards John, swinging an umbrella.

"Mycroft." John nodded curtly as the older man sat next to him on the bench.

"Hello, John." Mycroft sat stiffly, his umbrella between expensively-clad grey knees, long fingers tapping the handle, "How are you?"

"Fine." John replied, desperately wanting to be elsewhere.

Although his anger towards Mycroft had been bitter and intense, it had gradually dissipated into a dull animosity that John couldn't be bothered to maintain. The man had made terrible mistakes but he had lost his brother, wasn't that punishment enough?

"You?" he asked politely.

"Mmm, busy as usual." Mycroft replied vaguely as he threw some bread from the sandwich he held to the geese. John watched the crows swoop in to steal it.

"Are you still seeing your therapist?" Mycroft asked, as if he didn't know.

"No," he replied emphatically.

Mycroft bit the side of his cheek pensively. "Why?"

Again, a redundant question as John was sure Mycroft had all of his notes, partly the reason he had stopped going.

Instead he said, "She thinks I'm crazy," with a bitter smile. That and the implications she had begun to make, or try and force him make. 18 months was a long time to mourn a friend, even a best friend...He couldn't deal with what she was hinting at, not on top of everything else.

Mycroft looked straight ahead, out at the pond, "These things take time," he said.

"So they say," John agreed with a hint of bitterness. He looked up at the watery sun and rubbed his eyes before turning to Mycroft. "Do they say how much time?"

"I wish I knew, hopefully not too much longer."

"Lets hope so," was John's dubious reply.

Mycroft finished the sandwich in silence and folded the wrapper meticulously as he rose.

"Well, it was good to see you, John. Do let me know if you need anything. Give my regards to Mrs. Hudson."

John nodded, wishing he could speak to Mycroft properly, ask him about their life before John was in it, but Mycroft was decidedly not a gregarious person and John had no idea how to begin. "Bye," he said instead.

Mycroft nodded and walked away, umbrella swinging slightly.

*** 

 

After work, Stamford was waiting for him and they went to the pub. They chatted about work and watched football and John felt better. Stamford was good at avoiding tricky subjects and making him laugh. He knew Stamford felt faintly guilty, as if by introducing them he had started John on the path that had inevitably led to all this pain, but John liked him and made an effort to be cheerful around him in hope of assuaging some of his needless guilt.

They stayed out until closing time, said their goodbyes, and John walked unsteadily home.

As he approached the flat, he saw another tall man in a hoodie, the same man? Standing at the bus stop opposite the flat. Drunkenly he called out, "Hey!" When the man didn't turn, John noticed the white cables of headphones running down the front of dark hoodie and he began to cross the road towards him. "Hey!" he called out again, "Who are you?" The man began to turn and John just caught a glimpse of a pale cheek and then the bus was there and the man jumped on. John stood in the middle of the road as the bus moved away, the driver sounding his horn before John moved out the way. He stared into the bus as it passed but the man was nowhere to be seen.

He sighed and walked over to his door, his shoulders sagging as he walked in to the flat. He tried to be quiet but stumbled trying to avoid the creaky stair. When he heard Mrs. Hudson's door open, a golden chink of light and the sound of the telly spilling out into the hall, he sighed.

"Hello, love." She said, "Are you alright? I heard shouting."

"It's ok," he replied, trying to look like a pillar of sobriety. "Just some drunk idiots at the bus stop."

"Goodnight then dear." She replied with a smile.

"'Night." John carried on up the stairs; when he closed the flat door he heard her door shut as well.

He tossed his keys and wallet onto the kitchen table and went straight to his room, throwing himself fully clothed onto the bed, kicking off his shoes. He stared at the faintly spinning ceiling and tried not to think about the man at the bus stop. He felt his heart hammering in his chest and forced himself to breath steadily.

Eventually he fell asleep. He dreamt of falling and blood pooling on paving slabs.

Blood and falling had almost completely replaced blood and sand in his subconscious's affections.

 ***

 

When he awoke with a start, body covered in a cold sweat, heart hammering and the smell of blood in his nose, it was before dawn. His head was pounding and his tongue stuck to the roof of his dry mouth. He groaned and got up in search of water and aspirin.

He padded through to the kitchen, not wanting to turn on a light and add to the pain behind his eyes. He picked up a mug from the draining board and turned on the tap, unfortunately it was facing the wrong way and the cold water soaked the front of his jumper. "Shit!" He pushed the tap away and brushed ineffectively at the water soaking him. He pulled the jumper over his head and dropped it in a soggy heap on the floor. Filling the mug, he gulped the water down, then refilled it and turned back to the bedroom.

Someone was sitting in the armchair in front of the window.

He sighed and rubbed his eyes. Fucking shadows. Just stop this. He turned away.

He felt a strange ticking as the hairs on his neck rose, there was an odd feeling as if everything was holding its breath. 

He turned slowly back to the too-dark shadow in the armchair.

"Hello John." It said. 

He dropped the mug.

His eyes strained in the darkness to make out the figure, in hoodie, dark coat and jeans, sitting in the chair, holding the violin.

Was this what it felt like to finally go crazy? Was it the drink? He blinked a couple of times and the figure was still there, becoming clearer in fact. He frowned, taking a deep breath. He felt the water on the floor soaking into his socks, another stain drying into the carpet.

"You're not going crazy, John." That familiar voice; deep and faintly sarcastic.

He took a step towards the sound, part of him wanting to run, hide in the bedroom. Don't engage with hallucinations. That is probably the line between madness and sanity.

Suddenly the lamp by the armchair snapped on. Spots danced in front of his eyes and he raised a hand to shield them. Long fingers moved away from the lamp switch, blue green eyes watched him carefully.

He looked real, solid. Thinner than he remembered, dark circles under his eyes. Dark curls stuck out from under the hoodie over his head.

John breathed out in a rush, realizing he had been holding his breath since he dropped the water. "Sherlock?" His voice was hoarse from sleep and drink. "You're alive." It sounded stupid now, redundant.

"Obviously." Amused and a little bit condescending.

John felt white noise surge in his ears and he crossed the room in a rush and grabbed Sherlock, pulling him up from the chair and punching him hard in the face. "You bastard!" he shouted, rage boiling over, suddenly uncontrollable. "You fucking bastard!" John shook him hard, grabbing him by the lapels of the terribly familiar coat.

Sherlock reeled back from the punch and tried to hold John off but made no attempt to return the blow.

"What the fuck!" John yelled, still grasping his lapels, vaguely noting the warm solidity of his figure. He really was real.

Sherlock managed to pry himself free and stood looking down at John, holding him at arm’s length.

John stood still then, breathing hard, red in the face. "You utter bastard,” he said, quieter now as he shook himself free of Sherlock's grasp. "What the fuck is going on?" he said quietly, as much to himself as Sherlock.

"I'm not dead.” Sherlock said simply, and they stared at each other. "Sorry" he added quietly.

"Sorry you're not dead?" John asked. Sherlock didn't reply.

"It's been nearly 2 years Sherlock! Two fucking years! Where the hell have you been?”

"I was trying to keep you safe, I had to keep you safe.” Sherlock looked down at him and his composure slipped slightly. John noticed the sunken eyes and the livid bruise appearing on his cheekbone. He looked hollow and drawn. Sod that, John thought, he hoped the bastard had suffered. He suddenly realized that he must look similar.

“God, Sherlock, do you even know how much...how much shit you caused?" He spread his hands in a helpless gesture, attempting to encompass his whole life. He finished quietly, "How fucking awful it’s been for...everyone?”

John pushed his hair back from his forehead and closed his eyes, not wanting to look at Sherlock. "I watched you die,” he said, "I have seen a lot of people die, I have killed people and I have seen friends die… Did you think I needed more of that? That one more wouldn't hurt?”

Sherlock sighed. "It was necessary. He was going to kill you - you and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade.”

Necessary. John bit his lip in anger. "And you couldn't have let me know, sent word?”

Sherlock shook his head. "They had to believe I was gone..." John turned away with an angry huff. When Sherlock spoke again there was a note of desperation in his voice. “If I had told you they would have figured it out. You had to believe so they would believe and leave you alone.”

"It nearly killed me, Sherlock!” John said, turning around and stalking angrily towards Sherlock. Words are coming thick and fast now, bypassing his brain. "I have spent 18 months just existing. I have watched everyone else put themselves back together and get on with their lives and I have sat here, wondering what is wrong with me that I couldn’t.”

"I wanted to come back but I couldn't, I have tried to keep an eye on you, Mycroft has kept an eye on you but I couldn't come back until it was over.”

"Mycroft knew?"

Sherlock nodded.

“Bastard." John said without much feeling. It figured. What was it he had said earlier, "Hopefully not too much longer?”

"Molly?" he asked, already knowing the answer. Sherlock nodded, "She helped me. We had to tell her to stop seeing you though, she is hopeless at controlling her emotions.”

"You mean she couldn't lie well enough.”

They were silent for a moment. John looked at Sherlock - he looked exhausted but wired, like he was running on pure adrenaline. "So where have you been?"

"Abroad mostly, cleaning up the rest of Moriarty's web.” Sherlock replied.

"And that's done now, is it?" John raised his eyebrows. "So you thought you'd just come back and pick up where you left off?”

"Yes" Sherlock said, "I now realize that might not be as easy as I thought.”

"No shit.” John looked at Sherlock, his mouth was turned down and he looked utterly confused. He really doesn't get it, John realised incredulously. He doesn't get it at all. He felt a laugh beginning in his throat as he looked at that furrowed brow. How could he? He's Sherlock Holmes, who knows what goes on in that funny old head? It all makes perfect sense to him and he can't be expected to deal with other peoples sentiment. He was dead and he understands that I was sad then, but now he's alive so why am I not happy now? The laugh burst out of John’s mouth unbidden, and Sherlock looked at him sharply, even more confused.

John felt a softening in his heart, an unfurling of something he hadn't noticed had curled up tightly and turned away from the light. "You are an idiot,” he said without anger.

Sherlock looked briefly affronted, but then smiled and Johns heart felt like it would burst. He never thought he would see that smile again.

"I missed you,” Sherlock said and John smiled too, so widely that he thought the top of his head would fall off.

"Didn't you miss it?" Sherlock continued, "The thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through your veins? Just the two of us against the rest of the world.” His eyes shone and his smile widened.

"Oh God yes,” John replied, "I missed you, I missed us. I missed life.” He reached out and wrapped his arms around Sherlock, felt him stiffen slightly, taken aback, but then Sherlock raised his arms and tentatively returned the embrace. John shuddered and closed his eyes, fighting tears. He pulled his head back slightly, looking up at Sherlock who was looking down at him and suddenly it all made sense. Everything the bloody stupid therapist had been trying to make him see. He hadn't just been mourning for a friend but for a wasted chance, for the loss of something that never was, something he hadn't even known he wanted until now.

Don't think.

He reached up and touched his fingers lightly to one sharp, pale cheekbone, pushing his hand up into the soft, dark hair, pushing down the hood that covered it.

He heard the sharp intake of breath like it was far away but there was no movement - Sherlock was stock still, staring at him, not even taking a breath.

Don't think - now or never.

He linked his hand around Sherlock’s neck and pulled, closing his eyes he pressed his lips to Sherlock’s.

There was buzzing in his ears and the world seemed muted as he focused on the man before him. Sherlock’s lips were tense under his but John persisted, running the tip of his tongue along the edge of Sherlock’s bottom lip the man suddenly made a small, urgent noise in his throat, vibrating along John’s fingers and lips. A rush of breath from Sherlock’s nose and he opened his mouth against John’s, flicking his tongue against the other man’s.

John could hardly take it in, the feeling of Sherlocks lips, soft and dry, pressing against his own. And the scent of him - cold and cigarettes and vaguely damp as if he had not been anywhere warm for a long time. He tightened his grip on the back of Sherlock’s neck as he felt warmth rise in his stomach and areas south. He groaned as Sherlock's tongue slid against his own and he felt a hand grasp the back of his own neck, pushing long fingers into John’s short, greying hair. The feeling of those nails running over his scalp was like electricity down his spine.

“John," Sherlock sighed against his mouth, clutching him tighter.

John felt a dawning light behind his closed eyes, as if the sun had just come out.

This. This was worth 18 months of anyone’s life.


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Later...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found this second chapter that I started and never fully finished but I kind of like it how it is - so here it is.

"Oh God John!"

Sherlock spins away from the window, raking his hands through his hair.

"Hmm?" I murmur, not looking up from my paper.

"What is wrong with people?" he exclaims.

"Many and various things love," I reply, "Any people in particular?"

He gestures vaguely towards the outside world, "All of them, criminals, clients - where are they all?"

This feels like the other shoe dropping, it’s only been a day since we announced his resurrection to the world but frankly I am amazed that the crazy has held off this long.

He flops down on the couch with his head in my lap, crushing the paper. I pull it out from under his head and drop it on the floor. "I know love," I say sympathetically, pushing my fingers into his soft dark hair and stoking his head. He sighs and pushes up against my fingers like a cat. Part of me still wonders that I get to do this, that we get to do this.

Not only is he miraculously alive but, it seems he is, equally miraculously, mine.

I am still amazed at how angry I don’t feel.

At first, when I found him there in the armchair in the middle of the night, after 18 months of mourning and misery I thought the rage and desperation would destroy me, but, almost as soon as I had given voice and action to it, it was gone and all I knew was what I had probably known all along. I love him.

Naturally he says he figured it out ages ago but couldn’t do anything because I hadn’t figured it out yet - who says I am unobservant?

I can’t think too much about that, about how he jumped, knowing I loved him but not having heard me say it. Knowing he loved me and so having to do it anyway. To save us, to save me.

Really I think I knew it in that moment, when his feet left the edge of Bart’s roof, and it felt like a knife in my chest, a knife that stayed there for 18 months and became part of me.

Even then I couldn’t acknowledge it, because if I did then I hadn’t just lost my best friend, I had lost a chance, a possibility of something amazing that I hadn’t even recognised.

So, when he re-appeared the only thing that really mattered was making sure I didn’t waste another moment, another chance.

Two weeks have passed now and I am still amazed every time he puts his head in my lap, kisses me, lets me stroke his hair, smiles when I call him _love_

For the first week we just stayed in the flat, curled around each other, making up for all the time we wasted. We didn’t tell anyone he was back. Mycroft knew already of course, but even he stayed away. I wasn’t ready to share him with the rest of the world yet.

He was quiet and affectionate and so unlike himself that I was faintly worried but after that first week I felt him start to get restless, to look at his phone more often but try not to let me see. I realised that he wanted to get back to the world again and part of the old knife ache began to come back as I thought maybe this was a passing thing, a kind of recompense for what he had put me through and that he would want everything back the way it was once the world came in.

"Do you want to tell people?" I had asked him as he lay in my lap with his eyes closed while I watched crap telly.

"Yes." He replied. 

I nodded, "Better get Mycroft to sort out a press conference then," I said.

He blinked and looked up at me, surprised, "Well I was just thinking of telling people we know," he said, "Not sure we need to involve the press."

"Well it is a big deal, you need to tell your side of the story, get them onside. The world needs to know what happened and that you’re back in business."

He smiled, "Oh, I thought you meant tell people about us."

I laughed, mildly concerned that my smile might make the top of my head fall off, "Ah well yes, maybe we shouldn’t bother the press with that, much as I’m sure they’d love to hear all about it." I paused, "But perhaps its time to announce your resurrection as well?"

He nodded thoughtfully while I tried to process the idea that he wanted to tell our friends about us, not entirely back to our old life then?

"This should be enough though, shouldn’t it?" he asked quietly after a moment. He sounded uncharacteristically uncertain. "I’m happy with you, more than I thought I could be. Haven’t thought about work for a week." He paused, "I don’t know much about this sort of thing but isn’t love supposed to be all-consuming, all you need?"

He looked so worried and I felt my heart jump a little, I smiled down at him and pushed the curls away from his forehead. "Only if you believe stupid songs and movies," I said, "Love is something that affects everything you do, it’s always there and it makes you stronger and brighter but it is not all you need and all you are. Of course you need to work, that’s who you are. Now this is part of who you are too. I love you because of who you are, not because of some imaginary idea of who I want you to be or even who you want you to be. I’ve loved you more or less since I first clapped eyes on you and in most of that time you have been varying levels of insufferable but I stayed because I think you are amazing. Even when you are being a total dick." He frowned and I smiled, "The look in your eyes when the game is on makes me feel like my chest is going to burst, just like the look in your eyes when you kiss me does. I know its not going to be all hearts and flowers and thats not what I want. I want you Sherlock Holmes."

His eyes had widened slowly as I spoke and now he smiled, the rare, wide and genuine smile that he only ever seems to show me. "Thank you John," he said quietly, "I do want to go back to work, I want to feel that rush again, running through the streets with you like it’s us against the world and then I want to come home and do this." He craned his neck up and pressed his lips to mine softly, "And screw you into the mattress." He added with an evil grin.

I laughed so much I thought I was going to choke. He got up and reached for my hand, pulling me up off the couch, "Come along John, practice makes perfect," and dragged me off to the bedroom.

***

So we did the press conference, after a reunion with Greg in which he restrained himself from punching Sherlock with more success than I’d had. He did do a lot of yelling though, mostly about what I had been through, which was a bit awkward, but somewhat gratifying.

Sherlock explained everything in a perfunctory way which left more questions than it answered and said he wanted to go back to work.

Greg didn’t think the Chief Super would be keen but I was pretty sure Mycroft would fix that. Especially seeing as the revelation of Sherlock's innocence and the truth about Moriarty left the Chief Superintendent looking more than a little bit fucked.

The press conference itself was short and sweet, Sherlock gave his version of events and then at the end he kissed me, which I wasn’t expecting, and the camera flashes nearly blinded me. Still, two birds with one stone seemed to make sense, although I made an effort to act affronted afterwards because I didn’t want him thinking it was ok to spring that sort of thing on me when I was unprepared and hadn’t even told my sister.


End file.
